tossing incense in the air, followed by
banners of velvet, silk, and jewels; there are
crowds of little boys ringing tiny hand-bells
in cadence, producing by sound the same
effect on the ear as the fluttering of a swarm
of gnats has on the eye; there is a double file
of monks with shorn polls, sandaled feet, rope
girdles, brown cloth vestments, and—I must
take the liberty of adding as to these particular
monks—shocking bad heads, if there be
any truth in phrenology.

Then comes the priest who carries the
host under a golden canopy borne by notables.
His sacred charge is rested on the altar;
the chimes cease, but the great bell keeps
going: every toll sounding like the discharge
of a camion. The prescribed prayers are
devoutly said; respectable, well-dressed, middle-
aged men, drop down on their knees on the
hard pavement in the middle of the street.
The paternosters duly concluded, the host is
again borne beneath the gaudy canopy; the
chimes resume their tinkling, and the
procession moves on, followed first by the
burgomaster and the town authorities in their
official costume, and then by great ladies
accompanied by their bonnes in black hoods,
and then by the mass of the religious population,
which constitutes the majority. They
are gone; they have disappeared from the
bright open Place, down the yawning throat
of a shady street.

Are we dreaming? Have we seen a
vision? No; for here are the people pulling
the altar to pieces and unfurnishing its
finery, as soon as it has served its purpose.
The only personage in the multitudinous
procession who did not perfectly perform his part
was the be-ribboned lamb. It would not go,
and had to be pulled along with a string. They
were maladroit not to choose a tame cot-lamb
for the purpose. What destiny awaits that
symbolic lamb? Will it be quartered and
sold as vulgar butcher's meat? Shall we eat
any of its chops for dinner to-morrow? As
likely as not; for it was a show lamb, fat
and plump, and we are served with the best
of everything. The Fleur de Blé skims the
cream of the markets, even before it comes
to market.

Patiently awaiting Fleur de Blé's dinner-
time, quench we our thirst at the Café Foy
with a bottle of delicious beer, the native
nectar of Belgium, like that we had last
night for the uneven price of twenty-four
centimes, or twopence-halfpenny minus the
tenth of a penny. What can be the Belgian
fancy for constantly giving odd centimes
in change? They are not of sufficient value
to offer to a waiter nor to put in the poor's-
box.

"Some beer, if you please. No ? Why ?"

"We don't sell beer, Monsieur, till six in
the evening; we don't want common people
to come in during the day."

"Good, my dear little aristocrat of a
waiter. I was a common person, then,
yesterday, when I had good beer, with ham
and bread-and-butter, by gaslight; but I am
an uncommon one this morning, now that I
pay you a franc for bad Seltzer water, which
you have spoilt in uncorking it. Hein?"

At five in the afternoon anybody who is
anybody drives to the Casino, the suburban
café-villa-garden of a Philharmonic Society,
where a splendid assortment of ladies' and
children's toilettes—with the wearers of the
dresses inside them, be it understood—sit
under the shade of flowering trees around a
trellised temple of harmony, listening to
Sunday evening music, regardless of the
anathemas of Exeter Hall. The most
remarkable performance on the present occasion
was an eclogue sung by a couple of rival
nightingales, accompanied by an excellent
band, with such loud, clear, and long-drawn
notes, that you might fear they were singing
themselves to death. But when the concert
was over, they were at it again, to settle the
question who was the champion vocalist of
the grove. It was of no use awaiting the
issue of a struggle that promised to last all
night, and longer; so we passed up the
endless overarching avenue which embowers the
road after its departure from Bruges. The
mists were rising fast from the canal, and
wearied sight-seers were glad to rest their
eyes in sleep behind the dense obscurity of a
paper-rolling window-blind, in addition to
the ordinary curtain of calico.

"Tir-ely! " From Bruges to Ostend by
rail is nothing but a butterfly's flitting over
meadow land. In winter you might believe
yourself skating over the ditch-ice in a sledge
of larger dimensions than usual. At the
Ship Hotel you will lodge and live well; but
Ostend life is rather peculiar. As a packet
port, it is like other packet ports, but duller
and with less variety. It is a fortified town
of apartments to let, well peppered with
sand within and without, and composed of a
set of rectangular streets, many of them
bordered by stunted lime-trees, whose heads are
shorn into the shape of haycocks. The land
approach is over drawbridges and solid
arched gates, which do not give too much
room to pass; and therefore, when going in,
take care not to meet on market-days the
herds of pannier-laden donkeys thronging
out, whose impetuosity to get home to their
thistles sweeps every obstacle before them.
There is no rural scenery around Ostend;
nothing but a sandy flat, without a hillock to
vary it, except the range of dunes that rise
in defiance of the angry ocean. From the
town you cannot get a glimpse of the sea;
and yet, during the season, a medley of three
thousand strangers, comprising a large
admixture of Teutonic and Slavonic elements,
over-run the place, sometimes thankful if they
can be accommodated with a bed under a
dining-table. Out of the season, Ostend
would be a capital place whenever you want
to learn a language or get through a heavy,